METHODIST POETS. 599 



In manhood vain ; a second child in years ; 

 His morning folly, and his evening tears. 

 Would thy nice speculations reach some end, 

 Back o'er the heathen world thy view extend : 

 What see'st thou ? Senseless idols, wood and stone, 

 And altars, blazing to the God unknown : 

 What sees't thou now ? The Awful Glorious Name, 

 Impressed on all this universal frame." 



" Brave reasoning this, 'mong squalid rags forsooth!" 



Exclaim'd a rusty, blunt, old harrow tooth, 



" While I, the plough, the mattock, spade, and scythe, 



Man, horse, and ox, sweat for his annual tithe ; 



And bulls of Basan fed by Anak tall, 



'Midst filth Augean stink in every stall. 



***** 



Truth, bare thine arm, employ thy scourge of cords, 

 Expel the thieves ; the temple is the Lord's. 



* no og i ! * * * 



Jesus we know, and Paul we know ; but who 

 Are these ? Let Eli's sons come up and show ; 

 Devouring wolves !" But here the speaking tooth 

 Was silenced by a stroke upon the mouth, 

 A Peter- stroke." 



! eefi as .doB33 oiaimi ^mwjsib oi ac, 



Richard can do the tremendous. But I must omit his holy war, his 

 passing-bell for England's glory, rung by a tailor's thimble his bard,, 

 (not inspired) and his lawyer, who put Beelzebub into chancery, tricked 

 him out of his estate, and made him glad to hold under Big- Wig on 

 lease, threatening, that at the end of the term, unless fled, he would oust 

 tenant and reside. I must also avoid his " Physic Bottle," and proceed 

 to the " Ten Pound Note," such things being rather scarce with me 



now-a-days. 



.ilsQ T>jz& brnj ! luoa Yffoow ^bim r. 



Now rose the collar of a poor man's coat, 



And cork'd the bottle with a ten pound note : 



" That note," said he, " endors'd by men of rank, 



The faithless promise of a country bank, 



For that base bill my only cow I sold, 



Woe to the poor ! since rags will pass for gold. 



The times were hard, and bread was bad and dear, 



My farm six acres, eighteen pounds a year ; 



My children five, for labour yet too small, 



Of child-birth dead, my wife, my help, my all ; 



And winter time ! the snow was very deep, 



And lost or buried were my few poor sheep, 



My household doomed to cheerless food and fire, 



And not a farmer wished a hand to hire, 



Then came my landlord, for his rent was due ; 



The bank had fail'd, alas ! what could I do ? 



He sold my goods, and locking up the door, 



Shew'd us the poor-house on the neighbouring moor ; 



In angry accents, with unfeeling heart, 



Through falling snow, compell'd us to depart 



To that vile mansion, where I strive to hide 



The last remains of honest English pride. 



